


An Indelible Mark

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Branding, Marking, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He wants to leave a permanent mark, to show that heownsyou.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	An Indelible Mark

It is an exercise in patience, in trust, and above all in submission. He wants to show you how absolutely he owns you, and to do this he asks your blessing first, a blessing he knows you will give because it’s what he wants, and you do so _desperately_ want to please him. It’s unfair, the way he uses your devotion against you, but he does it anyway because he is August fucking Walker and he takes what he wants. 

And it sends a thrill through you, doesn’t it, that anticipation of being indelibly marked, of knowing that not only has he chosen and claimed you as his, he wants everyone to see it. And you, as well, to have you look at yourself and see, always, his mark, his proof of ownership. 

He is a fan of the classics and so he chooses a design of his initials, interlocked, small enough to fit on your wrist. When he brings the branding iron home he does not let you see it, and when the time comes, when he calls to you, it is already resting in the fire. Your whole body is pins and needles, fluttering nerves, worse than a bride on her wedding day. A bride, at least, can take off the dress and look the same the day after as she did the day before. 

But anyway. 

He calls to you from his seat on the floor, barefoot and in his shirtsleeves and it breaks your heart with how soft, how open he looks. But it’s August, isn’t it, and if he looks soft it’s only to disarm you. He calls to you, and when you settle between his legs he draws you back against his chest with one thick arm, your back against fire-warmed chambray and the steady beating of his heart. 

“Ready, pet?” His voice is deep and dark and it would be so easy to miss the fractionally faster breaths, the nearly imperceptible increase in heart rate. He is a monolith, and you can only see the faintest cracks because you are so very close, chained here for always. “You’ll be still for me. I’d hate to make a mistake.” 

And _that_ wasn’t a thought that had entered your mind until now, the thought of being maimed by this. But he’s put it into your mind, the bastard, so he can grip you tight against his chest, so he can lock your legs inside his, massive thighs immovable, caging you in. You turn your hand palm up, fingers open, fingers that clench tight again when the next thing out of his mouth is “try not to scream.” 

With your wrist gripped tight in one hand he reaches toward the fire with the other, takes up the branding iron to see its red-hot glow. “It’ll hurt,” he says, just before he presses the iron to the inside of your forearm. And you don’t scream, somehow, though all the air leaves your chest in a rush. Your skin sizzles and blackens, tendrils of smoke rising, and still he presses the branding iron to you until he is satisfied, until you are nearly unconscious with the pain and the effort of keeping still. 

He is hard, as hard as you’ve ever felt, and when he shifts to set the iron down on the hearth he presses against your back, briefly, hips twitching and he says “you’re mine, you’re _mine,_ look at that,” as he’s opening his pants one-handed and shoving your clothes aside just enough to get inside you. And it hurts, at first, the suddenness and the sheer size of him, working against pain and shock, but your body recognizes his, cries out for him, and it isn’t long before you rock together on the rug, on your side facing the fire, your arm held out where you can both see his brand rising dark on your skin. 

He’s nearly undone by the sight of you marked, owned, but he holds himself back with an iron will, keeps a steady pace as he snakes a hand around to rub at you, to make you forget the pain in your arm as he pulls pleasure from your pores. And it is the most delicious counterpoint, isn’t it, that interplay of pain and pleasure, that balance he’s shown you in so many ways. He shows you once more, rocking with you til you fall over the edge into darkness. And when he follows, he holds himself inside, marking you here, too, his seed branding you. And you float in it, this claim of his, this _mine mine mine_ that surrounds you now, inside and out.


End file.
